


Operation: Prodigy

by mooniemurphy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drug Abuse, Drugs, M/M, Origin Story, Past Child Abuse, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 22:50:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13397955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooniemurphy/pseuds/mooniemurphy
Summary: It becomes a cycle-- They're assigned a target, and instead of taking  said target out, they recruit them.No one is really complaining.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this once before, but now I've edited it, and it's going to be a full-length Phil/Clint thing, also featuring Natasha and Kate Bishop. It'll sort of combine some things from the comics, like Clint's past with the circus, with some things from the MCU, like how he meets Natasha, and some things of my own creation, like how they meet Kate.

The apartment they were in was small and crowded with people. It was three rooms, one of which was a kitchen/living room combination that was barely large enough to house the multitude of people stuffed into it. People had guns on their backs, people were in various states of undress, people were doing lines in the corner of the room off a broken down beer box, so desperate to get a fix. Clint didn’t think he could ever be that desperate for anything, but then, he wasn’t a drug addict. He just worked with them, and only when he didn’t have any other choice.

 

The lights of the apartment were flickering, and they were at a higher risk of getting caught than they had been before. The window that led to the fire escape had been knocked out in a drug induced fight one month about three months back. One of the drug addicts had since covered it with cardboard and duct tape, which was as good of a fix as any, Clint figured, but not quite the same as having actual glass in the actual window.

 

Clint stood in the middle of this fray of people, dressed in jeans, a tight shirt, and leather gloves. His bow and quiver were slung across his back, and he was sliding his thumb absentmindedly over the bow string where it rested across his chest. These people were his employers. Cool, analytical blue eyes scanned the scene before him. Drug pushing wasn’t really his kind of thing, but the money he made from it was good, something that kept him fed and in an apartment only slightly less likely to be condemned than this one was.

 

The problem was, that money wasn’t being made. The drugs were being pushed out, taken, and used, but the money somehow wasn’t coming back. At first, and logically, the runners had been blamed. They’d been lined up and interrogated in an empty building, standing against the wall. Upon no answer being given, the order had been given instead. Clint, perched in the rafters and watching the scene as it unfolded, had fired arrows clean into each runner, dead center of the chest and buried to the middle of the shaft. Clean kills.

 

But then the money still hadn’t made it back when the runners had been replaced. Which had promptly led to the realization that it wasn’t the runners stealing the money, it was that the buyers just weren’t paying. Hence why Clint was now standing in the middle of this dingy apartment, on grayish-brown carpet that had once been white, staring at the crack that ran along the ceiling. This damn apartment was going to come down on top of them one day; he wasn’t sure he’d be upset if he was there when it happened. He’d been given a list of names on a sheet of coffee-stained notebook paper-- and man, he really wanted coffee. But this was more important if he wanted to get paid.

 

The first two hits were easy enough. One arrow clean into the base of the neck for each one, from a distance where no one would have been able to place him at the crime scene. He wore gloves and used common arrows, so no fingerprints and nothing traceable. He was _pretty_ sure that he wasn’t going to get caught, and if he did, well. Prison was a place to live, right? And it had food. And he was fairly sure he had learned well enough how to hold his own, even without a bow.

 

He easily gathered all the money that could be collected, and the next day, brought it back to his employers. It didn’t matter to them that he’d waited a day to bring it in; they just seemed impressed that he’d managed two hits in one day. But Clint was handy with a bow. He knew where to shoot and how to shoot, the best ways to make a shot quick and effective. Highly trained ears listened past the conversation that he didn’t care about at all, so long as he got paid, hearing a distinct patter on the roof and the metal of the fire escape. It was raining.

 

Clint didn’t have great hearing-- his dad had taken care of that when he was a little kid. In fact, he was deaf without hearing aids. But when he had hearing aids in, he had himself trained to pick up noises that weren’t supposed to be there. And now, he was hearing footsteps thundering up the stairs, a sound that definitely wasn’t supposed to be there. His hands raised his bow automatically, causing his employers to tense, and he knocked an arrow with ease, ignoring everyone else.

 

Suddenly, they were pouring into the apartment through the front door and kicking the cardboard out of the window. They were in vests and helmets and goggles, like the FBI, but not. They weren’t the FBI. Clint had enough run ins with the FBI to know. There was something different about this group that Clint couldn’t place. On instinct, he raised his bow and fired an arrow into the one closest to the window, and then used years of acrobatic training to weave his way through the crowd, taking care to pick up a stack of twenties as he did. He pushed through the remaining cardboard int he window and shoved out of it, onto the fire escape, jumping from the third story to the ground. He tucked himself into a roll as he hit the ground to nullify the impact somewhat. It didn’t make it painless, but he was able to get up and run.

 

They were following him. Him, specifically. They wanted nothing to do with anyone else in the apartment; they had come for him. He didn’t look back to confirm or deny it, he knew. Almost automatically, he fired an arrow into the roof of a nearby building nearby, snagging the line attached to it and allowing it to pull him to the top. They wanted to catch him. Fine. He wasn’t about to make it easy for them. The rain was getting heavier, making it harder to see, and Clint relied on his eyesight. Clint swore lowly to himself, jumping across the gap between two roofs and landing hard on his ankle.

 

The next five minutes of his life were the biggest blur to date, and that was saying something. He ended up on the street in a terribly lit alleyway, his ankle throbbing hard. And as he looked around to figure out where he could go to fix his mistake and to get away from all of this, a sharp crack startled him from his focus, and pain flared through the side of his leg. He dropped like a brick.

 

“You were the mark we were supposed to kill,” a voice began conversationally, and Clint forced himself to look up. This guy didn’t look like the rest of them. He was wearing a suit under his tact vest, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, holding a pistol in his left hand. His face was surprisingly unwavering, pleasant, even. His voice was friendly. He looked shockingly underwhelming, but Clint had no doubt that he was not someone to be taken for granted.

 

He had an unspectacular face, in every way an everyman, but there were muscles under that suit jacket. Clint could see them. And he wasn’t exactly unattractive. Clint scoffed to himself. This man had just told him that he was supposed to kill Clint, and Clint was checking him out. This, honestly, wasn’t anything new.

 

“So kill me,” Clint forced out through gritted teeth. “Not like I can exactly run.” His hand came up to rest over his thigh, which was bleeding from where the man had shot him. A shot that could have been fatal, but wasn’t, which probably said that he was nearly as good a shot as Clint was. Blood was seeping between his fingers and mixing with the rain water puddle beside him on the ground.

 

“If I wanted you dead, I would have killed you,’ the man replied calmly, lowering his pistol and tucking it into the holster on his hip. “I won’t have to use this, if you don’t try to use that,” he motioned to Clint’s bow, which had fallen as Clint had, and was now laying in the street beside him. “I’m sure you could still kill me, even wounded, and I don’t want to have this get any messier than it already has. I’m Agent Phil Coulson, with SHIELD.”

 

“SHIELD,” Clint repeated, head spinning with pain.

 

“We’ve been very interested in you, Barton. The lifestyle you live right now doesn’t exactly suit your skills to the fullest extent, and SHIELD would be very interested in offering you a place among our ranks.” Clint took a total of about three seconds to wonder how Agent Phil Coulson with SHIELD knew his name, and then he decided he both didn’t want to know and didn’t care. It would probably make him hate his life choices more than he already did.

 

“Let me guess,” Clint forced out, “it’s either that or you shoot me. Again.” He didn’t want to be having this conversation right now. He was in a lot of pain, there was blood all over his fingers, and he felt sick to his stomach. The water by his thigh was now more red than it was clear, and he didn’t want to look at it, or he thought he might actually throw up.

 

“There’s a very high likelihood of that, yes,” Coulson replied with a simple smile.

 

Clint frowned at the man. He wasn’t left with much of a choice, then. He had no idea who this was, or what SHIELD was, or what was even going on, but they were offering him a place. That had to be better than a drug cartel. Maybe it would come with better perks than being a criminal assassin and drug pusher. And when it was either that, or die? Well, the choice was made for him, though he’d rather not have had to make it when he was bleeding out on the ground.

 

“Fine,” Clint gritted out, hand clenching tighter on his leg, where it was still throbbing in pain. The gun shot, the ankle, all of it was enough to make him want to pass out. But he wasn’t about to do that, not with his life still potentially on the line. His hand inched towards his bar, itching to take it, because he felt nervous and uncomfortable without it. He decided against it. He was potentially ridiculously outnumbered at this moment. He’d have to wait and see what this held for him.

 

“Well then, Clint Barton. Welcome to SHIELD.”

 

Groaning to himself, Clint deigned not to answer, despite several sharp comebacks that came to mind. He wasn’t sure if Coulson wouldn’t kill him just based on his inherent inability to keep his mouth shut. In seconds, he was being swarmed by other agents in vests and help to his feet, one of those feet completely useless to hold his weight. They helped him past Coulson and to a black, unmarked van that didn’t look at all suspicious to Clint. Some sarcasm. They got him inside and into a seat, where he closed his eyes and relaxed.

 

If they were taking him somewhere where they could kill him, he would at least be comfortable there. A second later, the air was permeated with the smell of a dark, heady aftershave that Clint instantly liked. He opened one eye just enough to see that Coulson was sitting in the van with him.

 

“Are you going to kill me, Agent Phil Coulson of SHIELD?” Clint asked in a tired voice, glancing over at the muscular, broad form of the man sitting beside him.

 

“If I was going to kill you, I would have done it out there,” Phil Coulson replied with a grin. “Much less clean up. Have you ever had to get blood out of vehicle upholstery?”

 

“No,” Clint answered,” is that a common occurrence in…. SHIELD? Whatever SHIELD is?”

 

“I’m sure you’ll find out during your time with us,” Phil grinned, that same simple smile that he’d given Clint to begin with etched on his face. It was nothing stunning or dazzling, no display of teeth, or even of any real humor. Just a small, simple upturn of lips that had the corners of the man’s eyes crinkling up just the slightest bit and giving his eyes a distinguished sparkle.

 

Exhaling a soft, quiet sigh, Clint relaxed back against the seat and breathed out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. Maybe it was blood loss, or confusion, or potential hysteria and insanity, or all of the above that were warring in his brain like they were fighting for custody of his brain.

 

He was pretty sure that he’d only known this man, Phil Coulson, whoever he was, for five whole minutes, and he was already falling in love. Just his luck.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Needless to say, Clint’s first day at SHIELD headquarters was memorable, if only for that fact that he was taken straight to Medical, where everyone just seemed very stunned to see him alive. He had to argue with another agent (Sitwell, or something) for five minutes when he tried to take Clint’s bow at the door, because there was no way he was entering an unknown place without his bow in his hand. Coulson finally stepped in and gave Sitwell a look, and Clint was escorted-- half-carried, really-- to Medical, bow in hand.

“So what exactly does SHIELD have planned for me? And what is SHIELD, exactly?” Clint asked as he was laid out in a bed, doctors poking and prodding at his wounded thigh and ankle. He was looking to Coulson, who was standing in the doorway, hands behind his back at parade rest, and just waiting.

“You’ll be briefed on all of that when you’ve healed,” Coulson replied amiably, and Clint knew that he wasn’t going to get anymore information than that, but it didn’t stop him from wanting to pry anyway. He rolled his eyes and winced as the young woman carefully extracted the bullet from his thigh. 

“Have you actually discussed this with the director, Agent Coulson?” the doctor asked, and Coulson tilted his head, his expression unreadable, prompting the lady to continue, “I only mean that--”

“I’m aware what you mean. Director Fury and I will discuss it at length.”

Clint frowned, pushing himself up onto his elbows, and furrowing his brow in confusion. But before he could ask, the doctor was laying a hand in the center of his chest and pushing, with more force than it looked like she should have possessed. Clint got the hint and relaxed back onto the bed, though boredom was already starting to weigh in his mind. He fidgeted, tapping his fingers against the mattress and staring at the high, arched ceiling, looking for anything interesting. There was nothing. The room was white, the beds were white, the clothes the doctors wore were white, and Clint was the only person in Medical at the moment.

“How much longer is this going to be?” he sighed, fingers toying with the fabric that covered the bed. It wasn’t comfortable; in fact, it was stiff and unyielding underneath his fingers, and he wanted to get up and move around, but something in the doctor’s face told him that that wasn’t going to be accepted.

“It probably would have been faster if you hadn’t been shot,” she remarked.

“Yeah, like I chose to be shot in the thigh.”

“You could have not run,” Coulson remarked casually, and Clint shot him a dark look which he promptly ignored, face as passive as ever. 

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” he quipped back, soft and sarcastic, and he might have been imagining it, but he thought he saw the corner of Coulson’s lips twitch, like he was about to smile. Clint felt an irrational rush of pride, which didn’t really make sense, because he barely new Coulson. And if this was going to develop into some kind of schoolboy crush, that was going to be really inconvenient. 

As the doctor braced Clint’s ankle, which wasn’t broken, but severely sprained, Clint fidgeted with his hearing aids. They weren’t very good ones; in fact, they barely worked at the best of times, and they hadn’t seemed to like his run through the rain. They were faltering, cutting in and out, and it was making him uneasy. He was used to not being able to hear, but he was going to be left both unable to hear and unable to run, which just made him nervous.

All of the sudden, the door slammed open, and a strict-looking young woman stormed in. She was wearing a suit, her hair tied back into a ponytail, and she had dark, critical eyes that pierced right into Clint when they found him. He wanted to shrink back, because she had the same kind of aura that Coulson did; powerful, like she expected to be listened to.

“You,” she began, and Clint’s eyes snapped to hers, his body tensing automatically. He did not like confrontation, and he didn’t like people looking down on him like he was inferior, and he had a feeling this was going to be a little bit of both.

“No,” the doctor cut in before the other woman could resume whatever she’d been about to say. “This can wait until I’m done working on my patient, thank you very much. Barton could have been killed with how long it took them to get him to me, and he’s lost a lot of blood. He doesn’t need the stress, and quite frankly, I don’t want to hear it. You can wait, Agent Hill. And so can Director Fury. I have a feeling that there’s things the two of you, and Agent Coulson, need to discuss before Barton is involved, anyway.”

The woman, Agent Hill, Clint assumed, seemed to deflate a little, and Coulson’s lips twitched again, like he was fighting a smile. Clint figured that maybe Agent Hill wasn’t used to being talked to like this, and decided that he liked the doctor and was going to put a little more effort into learning her name, if she was going to be like that. Anyone who had a sharp tongue and wasn’t afraid to push authority was pretty okay in Clint’s book, likely because he was the same way.

Hill didn’t argue, though, instead turning to Coulson, who didn’t seem too phased by the strict woman’s clear anger. “Agent Hill?” he began amicably, and Hill scoffed.

“Don’t. Fury wants to speak with you. Now.”

“I would have been very surprised if he hadn’t,” Coulson replied, motioning for her to lead the way. “Barton, I’ll have you brought to my office with Doctor Cho is done with you, and then you’ll be on your way home.”

“Thanks,” Clint replied dryly, because yeah, he sounded nice enough, but Clint still didn’t know where he was or what exactly was going on. No one had answered his questions, and he was definitely starting to get pissed off, no matter how nice Coulson was being at the moment. 

Hill and Coulson left, which left Clint alone with Doctor Cho, who resumed stitching the bullet wound on his thigh in silence. Clint switched off his hearing aids and pulled them out, prompting a look from the doctor, but she didn’t ask. Which was nice, as Clint probably wouldn’t have gone into that. After a few seconds of no communication, Doctor Cho tapped his wrist lightly, and his eyes shot up.

“I can read lips,” he told her when she hesitated, and she nodded.

“You are aware that Agent Coulson was supposed to kill you,” she began, and Clint scoffed. 

“Yeah, I am. But he didn’t, because SHIELD wanted me. Right?”

“Not exactly. I’m not entirely positive that Coulson’s decision to recruit you instead of killing you was cleared by his higher ups, and Director Fury isn’t the most understanding person in the world.”

Clint frowned. Oh. He’d been under the (clearly mistaken) impression that SHILED had decided not to kill him because they wanted him as a whole, not because one person had decided that they didn’t want to kill him. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. 

“So, what if Fury doesn’t agree with his choice to not kill me?” Clint asked.

He didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t get one. The doctor’s silence said enough. If Fury didn’t agree with the choice, Clint was as good as dead. He sat in silence then, and wondered in the back of his mind if running from SHIELD hadn’t been the choice he should have made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler Chapter. Pretty boring. I know. It'll speed up soon. 
> 
> I also know that Helen Cho isn't an important character, really, but I liked her and didn't want to make up a whole new doctor character. So there you have it.


End file.
